“What do we do with Max’s stocking.” It was a simple question that I could hardly get out. The words fell out more than they were spoken. Tears almost pushed the words forward in an effort to escape.  
I didn’t really want to decorate this year, but Gracie said she really wanted to have the house decorated…. so the house got decorated. It was was the inside that I was haunting me the most. I knew the tree had to go up, stockings would need to be hung, and that’s where the proverbial rubber would meet the road. Where decisions would have to be made, do we put this one or that one up or would that one or this one cause too much heartache.  
(But seriously what the hell do I do with this stocking) 
I knew this was coming, I’ve know it for months that I would have to face it. The season that has brought so much joy, has turned on me facing me as if mocking me. Calling me, as if daring me to wade into its murky waters. Can I hold it together for 4-5 weeks… can I put on a mask of joy if only for a little while? That question is much harder to wrestle with than one might think.  
(I still don’t know what I’m doing with this stocking, my deceased sons stocking… what do I do with this stocking?) 
The lights are lit outside, and inside the tree is up and decorations are starting to fill the house. Tears fall as I continue to get choked up as this process carries on.  
Yet I sit alone in a room full of people and wrestle with the question, what to do with Max’s stocking